


Silence, Part 2

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [9]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anger Management, M/M, Marriage, PTSD, Spying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Silence pt 1", Carver's still very, very angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence, Part 2

     It's review day.  The recruits Carver's nurtured for a year have gathered in the courtyard before the Knight Commander, in hopes of earning a commission or at least just doing the Maker proud.  Cullen's watching from the viewing platform on the Gallows steps while hopeful young men and women, all of whom Carver has come to know well over the past year, do their best to show their stuff.

     Carver knows most of them will be found wanting.  Cullen's standards have always been exacting -- Carver's are just as high -- and these days it's even more important that they are careful in who they induct into the Order.  Once upon a time it was enough to be good with a sword, ready with a verse of the Chant, and unafraid of mages, but recruiting like that caused the war.  Now recruits must understand the _purpose_ of the Order, too.  They must feel it as a sacred duty, and the abuse of that duty as a sin.  They must see themselves as half of a partnership, working together with mages to protect the Maker's creation from demons and worse.

     There's one recruit in particular, though, whom Carver has had his eye on, and not for good reasons.  Laurien:  Orlesian, tall and lean and blond, with a ready laugh and charm enough to make half the mages fall in love with him. And although Laurien clearly knows better than to touch a mage, Carver has heard reports of him fucking his way through the recruit barracks and the junior knights' wing, breaking hearts so cheerfully that no one's got hard feelings.

     But.  There's something about him.  Carver can't put his finger on it; it's just a sense.  Laurien's only mediocre with a sword and shield, but he shouldn't be.  That is, he moves too easily, he's too fit, too nimble, to be as clumsy and slow as he is.  And above his cheerful smile there is a hardness in his eyes.  Carver's seen that kind of hardness before, in mercenaries and blood mages and occasionally in his own mirror, but he shouldn't see it in any green recruit. 

     So Carver watches Laurien, close, whenever he can.  And he's  watching now as Laurien comes to the center of the courtyard for his demonstration duel.  He's facing Brechet, another Orlesian, who's as mousy and shy and gormless as Laurien is not -- but she tries so hard that Carver's hoping she'll make it.  (He and Cullen must both approve any knightings.  They do not always agree.)  She's got a good chance if she doesn't let Laurien intimidate her; lack of confidence is her biggest flaw.  Two of the mages in the watching audience cheer when she steps up; they're her friends.  She waves at them nervously, then takes a deep breath before assuming the ready stance.

     And then the ground shakes with a rumble like thunder, though the day is clear and cloudless.  In one of the upper windows of the east wing, there's a flash of light and suddenly the glass bursts outward, smoke and fire billowing in its wake.  Some sort of explosion.  As explosions are not exactly rare in a Circle of Magi, there are exclamations of alarm and a few screams, but no one panics.  Carver is almost -- almost -- distracted.

     But every instinct warns him, so he keeps watching Laurien even as Brechet gasps and turns toward the crowd and starts helping to herd them away from the falling glass.  Laurien drops his sword and shield as if he means to help her -- and then he pulls a pair of twin poniards from his gauntlets.  His eyes fix on Cullen -- who is looking up at the explosion along with everyone else.  He starts to run.

     So does Carver.

     And just as Laurien grabs onto the railing of the viewing stand, hauling himself up with a knife in one hand and the other in his teeth --

     And just as Cullen turns, sensing danger before he hears or sees it, because he still has the instincts of a warrior even if the hilt just slips through his weakened fingers when he instinctively tries to draw his sword --

     And just as another explosion rocks a different room and people _do_ start to panic this time --

     -- Carver lunges forward and puts his sword through Laurien's back, armor and all, and pins the fucker to the concrete.

     Laurien's a professional.  Even run through, blood bubbling from between his lips, he flings the knife that's in his hand at Cullen.  It happens so fast that Carver doesn't even have time to pull his sword loose.  But Cullen is ready this time, not with his sword but with the knife that he's taken to carrying lately.  He's no rogue but he _is_ fast, and it's a simple-enough movement that he successfully swats the assassin's knife out of the air, though the impact knocks his blade from his hand.  Before Laurien can try again with his other knife, Carver slams his head into the wall.  Maybe it knocks him cold and then he dies, or maybe the blow is what kills him.  Doesn't really matter; he's no longer a threat.

     Then Carver's sword is in his hands again because he's yanked it free to let Laurien slide to the ground.  A moment later he's up on the platform with Cullen, eying him to make sure he's okay -- Cullen nods at Carver and retrieves his knife, turning to cover Carver's back -- and together they scan the courtyard, ready.  But there are no other attacks.  In fact, the panic is easing as Carver's people quickly organize themselves and steer the crowd towards the west-wing courtyard where it's safe, and cover the gate by twos in case this is the start of an attack, and cover the mages who are flinging ice spells up at the burning rooms.  Amid the chaos Carver spots Brechet, dancing backwards and hefting her shield to cover a group of spirit healers who've grabbed the injured; she's shouting at them to hurry in case of more falling glass.  Yeah.  Girl's doing it right.

     But as the adrenaline eases and he realizes how close a call this really was, he looks at Cullen.

     Cullen smiles, thinly.  "We shall have to be more careful even at home, it seems."

     Yes.

     Carver's drilled his men for something like this, and though an assassination attempt by one of their own wasn't what anyone was expecting, Carver finds that he doesn't even need to supervise.  His lieutenants and corporals have everything under control.  Thus he's free to go back down the steps and gaze at Laurien's body.

     Cullen crouches and fumbles for a moment with Laurien's armor -- he can do the buckles, it just takes time -- and then gets loose the plate that covers the man's armpit.  He uses his knife to shunt aside overlapping sheets of chain, then cuts through the underlying gambeson and shirt, and finally nods.  "Look."

     Carver crouches to see, but he's already guessed.  Hidden amid Laurien's armpit-hair is the small black tattoo of a crow.

     Cullen stands and sighs.  He's turning away, rubbing a hand over his hair, doubtless thinking already about how to get a letter to Antiva without Chantry spies intercepting it, when Carver lifts his blade and brings it down to chop Laurien in half.  The clang of metal on stone echoes loud off the courtyard walls.

     He does it again, cutting off Laurien's head.  Then the legs, then the arms, and then just because the fury isn't done, he cuts the upper half of the torso again, and again, and again.  The gore flies and he doesn't give a shit.  He's shouting without hearing himself.  The blade -- one of his favorites -- vibrates with each blow against the stone beneath Laurien; he's probably ruining its edge.  A chip of bone stings his cheek.  He will only notice the cut when he shaves the next day. 

     Only when he glimpses Laurien's heart amid the mess, already bisected, is he satisfied.

     By the time he stops, the courtyard is silent.  The fire's out, just trickling smoke; nobody's running or screaming anymore.  Everyone's staring at him.

     Cullen is the one who comes to him and puts a hand over Carver's, which are tight as vises around the hilt of the sword.  Very gently, he pushes at Carver's hands until the blade's tip is lowered to the ground.

     "I am well," he says, so softly that only Carver can hear.  "I am well, my knight.  Be at ease."

     Then, and only then, does Carver relax.  He exhales and allows Cullen to pull him away.

#

     The day passes in a blur of orders and sidelong looks.  Carver's men are usually afraid of him.  They fear disappointing him.  They fear his ridicule, if they dare to show incompetence in his presence.  But they also admire his skill, compete for his praise; he does not mind the fear because of that.  Now, however, the fear has a different flavor, and he does not like its sour whiff.

     His own fault, he supposes.  Bethany always did say he'd inherited Father's temper.

     When all the chaos has been restored to order and Carver's shift is done, he goes back to the suite that he shares with Cullen.  Cullen's there already in shirt and trou, watching Carver from his desk.  Carver avoids him at first and racks his armor -- realizing only now that it's splattered liberally with blood, no wonder people flinched at the sight of him all day, gotta get a recruit to clean it -- and heads into the bathroom.  He scrubs for a long time.  To get the blood off.  He pours the bucket of water over his head and thinks about how he almost failed, again.

     He realizes Cullen's come in only when Cullen's hands take hold of his shoulders from behind.  And then he realizes he's been standing there with his head hanging, dripping cold water and a few hotter, saltier drops, for a good five minutes or so.

     They don't speak.  He can't handle words right now -- useless, meaningless, confusing things.  He just _needs_ , and Cullen knows it.  So Cullen presses him back against the rough wall and kisses him until he stops crying and strokes him until he's panting, and then he leads Carver back to the bedroom.  There Cullen undresses and slides into the bed behind Carver, and holds him.  Except he's also fucking Carver, really slow and gentle, which always makes Carver come completely apart and think the words _making love_ even though he's always thought those words were sentimental bullshit in almost any other circumstance.  But with Cullen, when they move like this, that's what it is. 

     So he lets himself fall to pieces and maybe he's still crying a little but he's also cursing and begging because Cullen's cock feels so _good_ even though Cullen's hands are not what they used to be.  That is the proof of Carver's weakness.  So he shudders and comes into one of those weak hands because Cullen has him, of course Cullen has him, Carver can always rely on Cullen, but can Cullen rely on Carver?  And when Carver throws back his head and cries out it is not only ecstasy that moves him, but frustration and despair.

     He hopes Cullen didn't notice.

#

     "I'm not sure this is a good idea," says Varric, easing himself into the seat.  (Carver knows why Varric sits down so carefully.  The stone chairs _hurt_ if you just flop into them.  He's learned this the hard way.)

     "I have to," Carver says, and it takes an effort of will to keep his fists from clenching.  "I need to know where this is coming from."

     They are in Varric's suite at the Hanged Man, and the sounds of raucous laughter and bad music murmur through the walls.  This, Carver now understands, is why Varric lives in such a shithole, despite being well able to afford better.  No one can listen at the door because the whole place is too loud.  No one bothers poisoning the food here because it's so bad no one eats it.  No one can jimmy the locks because there are too many people around, and the ones who aren't drunk are watching for information to sell -- like who jimmied the locks. 

     Someone will probably sell this information later:  tonight Varric Tethras, merchant prince, maker of heroes, and ruthless backshooting bastard, is passing an evening playing cards and drinking Corff's best ale with a big man carrying a big sword who's dressed like a mercenary.  Varric had lifted an eyebrow at Carver's hood and cloak, but Carver could only shrug; he's not good at disguises.  What matters is that no one recognize him -- because the bounty on his head is almost as high as the one on Cullen's.

     "Where it's coming from, ha."  Varric takes a swallow of ale and grimaces elaborately.  "Junior, half of Thedas wants your boyfriend dead.  The other half wants _you_ dead, mostly to spite him.  Or to spite the Champion, though frankly anyone who thinks that has never seen the two of you going at each other."

     Carver makes himself smile.  Varric likes it when he smiles.  "What, no one wants me dead for myself?"

     "Not many left.  You have a nasty habit of chopping up anyone who looks at you crosswise, remember.  I hear most of the contracts out on you got cancelled after that little display of yours."

     This pulls a real laugh out of Carver, but it fades quickly.  He's not really in a laughing mood.

     "Someone's pushing this," Carver says, and beneath the table where Varric can't see, his fists finally do clench.  "It was never this direct before.  I can fight an army, something in front of me, but I can't fight what I can't see, and -- "  And the next assassin might be more subtle.  The next one might come in the dark, or use poison.

     Varric gazes at Carver for a moment with a look that is... sympathetic?  Admiring?  Maybe just surprised.  Carver never talks about Cullen around Garrett's friends, even though they all know he's fucking his commander.  He doesn't want to talk about it now, really.

     "All right," Varric says, finally.  "I've got people who know people, who can talk to people.  Wheels can be set in motion.  But those wheels are going to need some greasing."

     Carver nods and pulls a fat purse from within the cloak, handing it to Varric.  "A hundred and twenty sovereigns."

     Varric whistles at the weight of the bag.  "Junior, I didn't know you had it in you."

     "It's everything I have."  He doesn't mean to say it like that.  It just comes out.  He doesn't mean for Varric to hear the waver in his voice or see the desperation on his face, either.  That just comes out too.  "Is it enough?"

     "More than."  Thank the Maker and the Paragons Varric stays all business and doesn't mention Carver's lapse.  He opens the purse and counts out about two-thirds of the coin, then hands the purse back.  "That should do.  I'll ask for the rest if I need it."

     Carver licks his lips and nods unnecessarily, putting the purse away.  "Right, then."

     "Junior," Varric begins, and Carver tenses.  He can tell that Sage Advice is coming, and that he should probably listen to it.  Varric is, in his own sardonic way, very wise.

     Carver gets to his feet before Varric can start, knocking back the last of the ale.  "I'll see you, then."  And he's out the door before Varric can do more than blurt a farewell.

#

     It's late.  Early.  Carver should be asleep, and he knows it.  He'll have to be up in a few hours, and he'll need all his wits about him for a day of recruits being stupid and apprentices being mischievous and keeping this great reeking pile of a city safe.

     But he's awake, and he can't sleep, and finally he gets up so that his restlessness won't wake Cullen.  Cullen needs his rest.  Cullen never speaks of it, but he has a lot of nightmares -- even more than he used to.  And now Cullen murmurs new things when he thrashes and groans and shakes in the night, his eyes rolling beneath their lids as if ten thousand assailants surround him in the Fade.  _"Blessed are those,"_ he says in his sleep.  Carver expects this because the words might be nothing to him, but to Cullen they are a lifeline.  _"Blessed are those... falter.  I will not... nothing.  This is nothing.  This is -- "_   And sometimes he sobs, jerking as if something has hurt him.  This is usually what wakes Carver when the nightmares begin, if he's still asleep.  _"Oh, Maker.  Oh, Maker, Carver will come.  He will come for me... not afraid.  Not... falter."_

     By the time Cullen reaches this point, Carver has rolled onto his back beside him, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

     He cannot blame himself for Cullen's capture by the Inquisition, or the tortures they subsequently inflicted.  There's no room in Carver for self-blame, not anymore.  He no longer relives the soul-rending fear of those days, when he did not know where Cullen was or whether he yet lived.  He doesn't even regret not being allowed to kill Karras.  All these terrible feelings have been eclipsed by a strange coldness inside him, which is heavy and dark like a lowering thundercloud.  Or a whirlpool, or a great bottomless pit.  These are the shapes of his rage.

     (He has never understood why rage demons are fiery.)

     He stands now at the foot of the bed, gazing down at Cullen as he sleeps -- peacefully, for now.  But what is inside Carver is not peaceful.  He can keep it tucked away, hidden, while Cullen is awake.  Cullen needs him then, so he is cheerful, he is gentle, he is lustful, he is responsible, whatever Cullen expects of him.  And when Cullen is asleep, Carver is loving -- because he cannot look at this man, cannot listen to him breathe and watch him be alive without feeling something he can't articulate.  Sometimes this feeling becomes overwhelming.  It burns his chest and stops his breath.  It makes him press a hand to his mouth and bite down hard, because otherwise he will just start laughing, or crying, or babbling hysterically.  Or he will wrap himself around Cullen and never let go, and that would scare people.  (But not Cullen.  Cullen doesn't scare easy.)  But that's what he feels.  It's a scary thing.

     Carver watches Cullen sleep as he grips the bedpost until it creaks.  He wonders if this is how it feels to go slowly mad.

#

     "I have a surprise for you," Cullen says, maybe a week later.

     They're walking through the Gallows, so Carver is indeed surprised.  Cullen never plays the lover when they're on duty -- which means this surprise must be professional, somehow.  "A surprise, ser?"

     Cullen's lips twitch, perhaps in approval of the _ser_ , or in amusement.  "Yes.  I've missed our sparring sessions, you see."

     Carver's heart leaps, but then he forces himself back to calm.  Cullen can't be ready to spar again.  In the week since the assassination attempt, Carver has seen that moment over and over in his dreams:  Cullen reaching instinctively for the sword which was once an extension of his hand, only for his hand to fail him.  If Cullen hadn't had his knife...

     "You'll be back on the yard with me soon, ser," Carver says briskly, putting confidence into his voice.

     "Indeed.  Until then, however, you must keep your skills honed, and there is no one else here who can match you, I am afraid to say.  So I have taken the liberty of hiring a specialist."

     Which makes Carver grimace, because it sounds like Cullen's just gotten him a prostitute.  But it's only when they walk into the practice yard, and Carver sees the specialist, that he starts to get angry.  A dwarf.  A sodding _dwarf_.  What is this?

     The dwarf in question turns to them, though, and Carver's anger slips.  This dwarf is as much like Varric or those nimble little Carta bastards as Carver himself is like Garrett -- not at all, that is, despite superficialities.  The dwarf's almost as wide as he is tall, for one thing, and his armor looks heavy as stone.  Carver looks closer.  Wait.  It _is_ stone.  This dwarf is actually wearing plates made of cleverly-carved solid rock, and he moves like it's paper.  His hair and beard are the same color as the crusted old blood on that big-as-the-Maker axe leaning up against the wall beside him.  Doesn't the dwarf ever clean the thing?  But its edge is sharp enough, so maybe he cleans it by killing things with it.

     Also, he's got what Carver has always thought of as _the Orzammar look_.  He doesn't know what else to call it.  It's a kind of stoicism, a coldbloodedness, a focus, that reminds him a little of the Qunari.  The born surfacers like Varric, or those who came topside a long time ago, don't have this look.  Only dwarves who've heard the whisper of their Stone ever do.

     "This the one?"  The dwarf's voice is almost a grunt, deep and gravel-rough.  He looks Carver up and down unabashedly.  "Hnh.  First one o' you humans I've seen who actually looks right.  Good long arms, shoulders that make sense.  Legs _too_ long, but -- "  He grins suddenly.  "We can't all be perfect, I guess."

     "Indeed," Cullen says equitably.  "Knight Captain Carver, this is Serrah Oghren.  Former companion to the Hero of Ferelden and a warrior once of Orzammar, lately of the Grey Warden garrison near Amaranthine."

     "Ferelden?"  That's the thing Carver really hears, out of the slew of associations and once-froms.

     "Yeah, _Ferelden_."  The dwarf scowls.  "Where it costs a sodding mint to raise a nugget, apparently.  S'why I'm here, t'make some extra cash training you."

     Which immediately puts Carver's hackles up.  Since when does he need _training?_   But before he can find a way to say this that doesn't make him sound eighteen again, Cullen adds smoothly, "Ser Oghren is a master of the berserker form, Knight Captain.  It is a long-honored dwarven fighting style which I believe might suit you, and be of value to the Gallows."

     "Prob'ly not much 'value to the Gallows' in it," says Oghren, scratching his ass.  As he does so, an aroma wafts Carver's way that makes him flinch.  Apparently stone armor's so hard to take off that its wearers don't bathe.  "Word has it you got rid of all the shit Templars, Knight Commander, but the ones you got left don't seem like they got the bloodlust ya need to be a berserker.  _This_ one, though..." 

     Suddenly his eyes narrow, and Carver forgets about the smell because the way this fucker's looking at him makes him want to smash another head.

     But he doesn't.  Because Cullen's here, and suddenly he's not so sure he can take this dwarf.  Weakness again.  His hands tighten into fists and suddenly the rage is back, so powerful that he trembles with it.

     "Yeah," says Oghren, with his eyes full of stone and brutality and satisfaction.  "You'll do."

#

     That night Carver has to soak himself in a cold bath.  Everything hurts.  In fact he sends one of the Tranquil to beg a bucket of ice from the mages, and when he adds this to the water it feels better than sex.  Well, almost.

     Cullen's waiting when he drags into the room and flops facedown on the bed.  "A good workout, then?"

     It was.  And he is exhilarated in its wake, despite the pain.  Oghren is faster than anyone with legs so short has a right to be, and his arms are fully as long as a human's, making the reach of that bloody axe terrifying.  But sparring was not the goal of their session.  Oghren spent much of the day simply explaining, and then following those explanations up with demonstration.  _Any nug-humper can get mad and charge into battle.  A berserker's rage is something different, though.  It's too much for the mind, if you're not careful.  Shuts off all the stuff that thinks.  Letting go's easy; hard part's staying in control._

     "Yeah," Carver mutters, because it will take too much effort to tell Cullen all this.  Cullen chuckles and moves away for a moment, the bed shifting under his weight.  Then he's back, and there is the sound of a bottle opening, and a scent of sandalwood oil.  Carver's dick gets hard almost immediately, because Cullen plus oil equals _Maker yes_ , but he's too damned tired to act on the urge.  Cullen's hands come to rest on his back, slippery with oil and warm.

     "I'm pleased to hear it," he says to Carver, and then his hands begin sliding over Carver's back.  It's not the kind of massage Carver usually likes, with deep prods and tugs on his muscles.  Cullen can't do that anymore.  Carver really doesn't want the grip and grind today, though; he hurts too much.  Cullen's slow, sliding caresses are just about perfect.

     But something has been bothering him.  "Why?" he asks, knowing Cullen will understand the question.  And Cullen indeed sighs. 

     "You are angry," he says softly.  "You've been angry, ever since the incident with the Inquisition.  And I have felt that anger in you growing, not fading as it should, these past few months."

     Carver says nothing.  But he knows the muscles in his back are starting to tense up again, because they hurt like fire.  Cullen notices too, and his hands slow over the knots of tension.  He presses his thumbs in, and Carver can feel how hard it is, how much concentration it takes, for him to do what once would've been so easy.

     But.  Cullen does it.  It takes time, but he _does_ it.  So Carver is able to relax.

     "I know of no way to ease your anger," Cullen continues, after awhile.  "If you were a devout man, I would pray with you.  If you were a lustful man -- well."  He feels rather than sees Cullen's smile.  "But that is insufficient, because you are also a man of action:  you strike, you defend, and you find joy in the doing.  But when there is nowhere to strike, no clear attack to defend against..."  Cullen sighs.  "You chafe in your sheath, my sword.  It pains me that I can do nothing to help you."

     There's such regret in his voice that Carver feels guilty.  And that makes him angry, which makes no sense, but it's what he feels.

     "I," Carver says, and immediately his throat tightens.  He doesn't have the words for it, anyway.  It's so selfish of him to be angry, and he knows it.  Cullen's the one who was hurt.  Carver should be concentrating on how to help Cullen sleep better, get better with that knife.  He should focus on security procedures, recruit training, the Gallows, _Kirkwall_ , so that Cullen can take on the world.

     But the world has hurt Cullen, and Carver can't kill the world for its temerity.  He really kind of wants to.

     At Carver's silence, Cullen shifts to lie down beside him, still running a hand over his back.  "Enough.  You need rest.  Turn over and let me tend you; I see your squirming."

     Carver can't help chuckling and blushing a little at his own predictability.  He rolls over, and Cullen carefully curls an oiled hand around his cock and works him slow and steady.  It's more than enough.  Cullen's hand on his skin, Cullen's fingers teasing the underside of his tip, the heel of Cullen's palm brushing his balls, Cullen's breath in his ear -- these things have always been erotic to him, even back when he could only have them in dreams.  So he closes his eyes and bites his lip and is too tired to do more than whimper a little as Cullen milks him onto his own belly.  He is asleep before Cullen can fetch a cloth to wipe him clean.

     He sleeps deeply, too tired even to dream.  And then in the small hours of the night he jerks awake when Cullen cries out and hits him in the belly, thrashing.

     Startled, Carver does not think before he sits up and grabs Cullen, obeying the instinct to _do something_ even though he has made this mistake before.  He knows better.  And sure enough Cullen's eyes snap open but do not see him, and Cullen's face twists into a mask of fear and rage so stark that Carver's breath catches, and suddenly everything goes violent.  Cullen headbutts him, so hard that he sees stars.  Carver's hands slip off Cullen's shoulders.  He feels rather than sees Cullen rolling, reaching for something, hears the hiss of metal against leather, and quickly he blurts, "Cullen!"

     Cullen freezes.

     Carver shakes his head to clear his vision, which happens quickly enough that he sees Cullen drop the knife he was about to shove into Carver's gut.  Cullen's face is all eyes, all horror at what he's almost done.  His hands begin to shake and abruptly he turns away, curling himself into a ball.

     Fuck.  Carver wipes blood from his split lip, checks to see if his nose is broken -- it's not -- and sighs.  "It's all right, Cullen.  Really.  It's my fault.  I shouldn't have..."  And then he stops talking.  It's pointless.  Cullen's already praying, whispering _Andraste save me, Maker forgive me,_ and Carver knows this will comfort him, eventually.  The best thing Carver can do is let him alone.

     He slides the knife back under Cullen's pillow -- Cullen doesn't even notice -- and lies back down beside him, radiating cold dark rage at the world for the rest of the night.

#

     "There's two kinds of anger," Oghren tells him.  "There's the cold kind, and the hot kind.  You got a lot of the cold stuff in you, I can tell.  But see, the cold stuff is a trap.  It's turned the wrong way, pointed inward.  It's the anger you feel at _yourself_ , and if it keeps up you'll start drinking, or going crazy, or taking it out on the people you love.  So we gotta turn your anger outward.  Focus it on anybody who hurts you and yours.  It ain't any prettier than the cold rage, but at least it won't eat you alive."

#

     The note is sitting atop the pile of correspondence on his desk, the next evening.

> _J,_
> 
> _Found something.  A mutual acquaintance will fly into your belfry tonight to explain.  The usual hour._
> 
> _V_

     Which, Carver knows, means midnight, because that's the time when Garrett always tended to drag them out in search of thugs to beat up for coin, back in the days when they'd needed money that badly.  The V is Varric of course, and he's the J -- Junior.  (He hates that nickname, but it serves its purpose.)

     The mutual acquaintance, though -- that part he doesn't get.  Varric's network of spies likely dwarfs Bran's; it's why Carver went to him.  But Carver doesn't know any of Varric's people, or at least he doesn't think he does.

     No matter.  He burns the note in the fireplace, then heads to Cullen's office for his daily report.

     At the end of the report, Cullen dismisses him, then sits there gazing at Carver's still-crusted lip for a long moment.  He smiles, but his eyes are sad when he says, "I am sorry."

     Carver goes to him, kneeling at his feet to take his hands. "You know you don't need to be."

#

     It's fucking cold up in the Gallows' belfry.  Winter's coming on fast and although Kirkwall winters are generally mild -- nothing like the white death of southern Ferelden -- the belfry's up high enough to be buffeted by steady streams of chilly, salt-laden wind.  Carver shuffles from foot to foot and blows on his gauntleted hands, wishing he was back in bed with Cullen.  But Cullen is asleep now after Carver relentlessly pleasured him, making him come twice so maybe he'll sleep through the night this time.  And also so he won't know what Carver's up to.

     There's a step behind Carver and his sword is in his hand, his body pivoting, almost before he realizes why.  And then he freezes, in part because his sword has stuck itself in one of the wooden struts of the belfry -- not enough clearance for a two-hander, he should've noticed, fucking stupid, what is wrong with him -- and in part because there's a dagger at his throat.

     "My apologies," says the elf holding the dagger, and then he grins.  Carver remembers him:  Zevran, who saved Cullen's life once before, though that was merely from Crow poison and not the Crows themselves.  "That is why I asked to meet here, naturally; you have a reputation for slicing people in half first and asking questions later.  But I honestly did not mean to startle you.  Old habit."

     Carver puts his sword away and relaxes.  He should've realized Varric would only trust a former Crow to spy on current Crows.  "I only kill people who come at me first."

     "Hmm, yes."  Zevran smiles, sort of flicking his daggers back into their sheaths; it's far too fast and fluid a motion for Carver to follow.  "Dicing Laurien was a wise thing to do, if you will allow the compliment.  The Crows charge more for a job when the target is known to be, ah, _formidable_ , and that alone will put the price of assassinating you out of the average scoundrel's range.  Alas, the person who hired Laurien could afford it."

     This is what Carver needs.  His hands twitch, and suddenly he's not cold anymore.  It's the onset of what Oghren calls _the red_ , the hot anger, and it's something the dwarf has warned Carver not to unleash in mixed company until he's had several years of practice with it, unless he wants to suddenly find himself surrounded by dead bodies and with a disturbing red-tinged blank spot in his memories. 

     So Carver reins it in and says, "Who hired Laurien, then?"  Someone in Val Royeaux, he's guessing, or one of the more fanatical rebel mage groups.  He'll take care of them.  And if chopping up a Crow is a good deterrent, then he'll have to get more creative with the Crow's employers.

     "Lady Shallan Everford." 

     The elf's Antivan accent was hard to parse; for a moment Carver thought he'd said something more exotic-sounding.  Someone foreign.  And then Carver's mind stutters as he realizes he _knows_ this name.  It's local.  The Everfords are another noble family of Kirkwall; Lady Shallan was a friend of Carver's mother, or as close to a friend as any two noblewomen ever safely got.  He remembers one of Garrett's letters complaining about the woman _sizing me up like a prize bull, for her heifer of an eldest daughter_.  But Carver has heard nothing else of the family since.  "You sure?"

     "Quite sure.  But if you require proof -- our mutual friend paid for that, knowing you might -- then here."  He offers Carver a torn-out ledger page, which Carver can parse only because he's spent time helping Cullen with accounts.  The entries here are neatly-written, each one occupying several lines, well-spaced.  His eyes go right to _S. Everford, installment plan, req. Kirkwall Knight Commander, undercover single op ****, implement 60.  Laurien as'nd._   "It will be easy to corroborate the other entries, if you're wondering; the page is authentic."

     "What does -- "

     "She paid for a single Crow operative," Zevran translates.  "An elite; the four-star Crows are the most experienced and skilled.  I was such a one, once."  The elf smiles unselfconsciously.  "Since this one involved an infiltration of substantial duration -- I understand Laurien served a full year here as a recruit -- Lady Everford was instructed to pay in installments as compensation for the operative's time.  At sixty percent of the maximum payment, however -- "

     "Yeah.  I get it now."  He's just not sure he believes it.  Why's some local minor noblewoman trying to kill Cullen?  "You have _installment plans_?"

     "The Crows do, yes."  Zevran puts just the lightest emphasis on the noun; _they_ are not _him_ , anymore.  "I work on up-front commission only, thank you.  And I prefer to charge reasonable fees.  The Crows, however, will happily bankrupt any noble foolish enough to agree to their terms.  I suspect she did not demand a finite period for the infiltration; that is why it went on so long, so that they could rob her blind on the interest."

     So she's broke now.  That's good, but it still doesn't make sense.  "Why's she doing this?  Cullen's never dabbled in politics; that's what Bran's for.  She an Inquisition sympathizer?  A closet apostate?"

     "Perhaps, but most likely it is something simpler.  You are a scion of the Amell family, are you not?"

     Carver looks at him blankly.  "Yeah, but what of it?  My brother's the family head, I think.  Unless it's Gamlen, my uncle, but he's off in Cumberland with his daughter."  He doesn't understand why they're even discussing this.  What does it have to do with the war, and mages, and Templars, and the Chantry, and the whole fate of fucking Thedas?  Why are they talking about this minor provincial _bullshit_?

     "And your brother has vanished.  If I remember my lessons in Free Marches law -- "  He smiles at Carver's frown of confusion.  "Always a wise thing to be familiar with the law, serrah, when your business is murder.  Anyhow, according to Kirkwall law, a noble's estate is considered abandoned one year and one day after its family head last occupied the property.  After that, its title -- and the title of family head -- falls to the next living relative who resides in the city.  That would be you."

     Lovely.  Now he owns the house he's never spent a night in, and can't remember where he put the key to.  "So?"

     Zevran's eyebrows rise.  It's not surprise at Carver's ignorance, he thinks -- Carver's good at detecting that sort of thing.  Maybe he's just surprised Carver doesn't give a shit that he's now the head of Kirkwall's most esteemed noble family.  This is confirmed when Zevran says, with exaggerated delicacy, "You are young, healthy, quite attractive if I may say, _not_ a mage, famous as such things go, and filthy stinking rich -- or at least possessing substantial earning power, as evidenced by the fact that you hired me.  Quite the catch.  _If_ you were not also known to be rather devoted to the good Knight Commander."

     Bloody Maker.  Everything in Carver goes still.  _This isn't about Cullen at all._

     "No one would question the Knight Commander's murder, under the circumstances."  Zevran shrugs, apparently nonchalant.  He's looking at Carver's hands, though, which are curling into fists.  "He has so many enemies of his own that no one would look for _yours_ among the culprits.  And Lady Everford has three daughters of marriageable age, so..."

     _This is about **me**_ _.  She tried to kill Cullen because of_ ** _me_** _._

     "Thanks."  He makes himself say it.  Makes himself go through the motions of civility... but there is savagery rising in his mind.  "I'll take care of things from here."

     "If I may suggest..."  When Carver is finally able to make himself focus on Zevran, Zevran is watching him, for once unsmiling.  "This is a matter of nobles and politics, Knight Captain.  It must be settled in the same way, or the repercussions could be... significant.  I would not act until your -- understandable -- anger has cooled."

     But Carver's anger is already cold, and growing colder.  It _burns_ as it deepens, as absurdity adds insult to injury, as _my fault! someone tried to kill him because of **me**_ _!_ eclipses everything else.

     "Thanks," he says again.  The words sound distant to his ears.  He feels very far away, even though they're standing no farther apart.  There's none of the red in this.  He knows who to blame for the latest threat.

     Zevran sighs.  "Oghren speaks well of you, and you've paid me enough," he begins.  "I could throw in Lady Everford -- "

     "I've got it."

     "No additional charge."

     He is far from this place.  Zevran's voice is tinny and thin compared to the deep, slow pulse of blood in his ears.  The wind is nothing compared to the cold inside him.  He is watching himself draw his blade to cut this elf in half.

     No.  He is telling himself that Zevran is a friend.  He is --

     He is --

     -- too angry, too cold, this is what Oghren warned him about, he is going mad, he is --

     He is closing his eyes and exhaling, slowly.

     "No," Carver says, finally, because it feels like he's taken a long time to answer even though he knows it's only been a moment.  "Thanks -- really.  I'll... I'll be all right."  And then, because he knows why Zevran's worried:  "I'll keep my wits about me."

     Zevran doesn't look like he buys it.  But he finally sighs, shrugs, and in one smooth movement swings himself over the belfry's railing, latching onto the ladder he climbed to get up here.  It leads to the roof of the building.  "Good luck, then, my friend.  May your lover be safe, and may your hand be strong, and may the Maker have mercy on whoever you're about to kill."  Then he's gone.

#

     The thing that keeps Carver up for the rest of the night is not the anger.  He can sleep through that.  He _has_ slept through that.

     No.  What keeps him awake, staring down at Cullen, gripping the bedpost until the wood begins to pop and crack, is this:  Lady Everford probably won't be able to afford another Crow, but that doesn't mean she won't try again.  It just means she'll hire someone more inept next time. 

     _This is a matter of nobles and politics._

     Or she'll do it herself.  Either way, she might get lucky.

     _Focus it on anybody who hurts you and yours._

     Yes.  _Why_ she did it is irrelevant.  She has tried to kill his Cullen.

     The red creeps about the edges of his vision, encroaching.

#

     He doesn't plan anything that happens next.

     In the morning he's quiet over breakfast.  Cullen watches him for awhile, then finally says, "Did I... disturb you again, last night?"  He doesn't always remember his episodes.

     Carver feels abruptly guilty.  "No.  You slept fine."

     Cullen's smile is thin.  "Which suggests you were awake, to see."

     Shit.  He's not thinking, to walk into these kinds of obvious verbal traps.  And he needs to think.  Zevran's right; he can't just walk up to the Everfords' estate and start laying waste.  Shit like that has _repercussions_.  It'll make life harder for Cullen.

     Carver rubs at his head, which aches.  "Just got a lot on my mind, lately."

     "I can see that."  Cullen seems to consider for a moment, and then he says, "Would you like to talk about it?"

     He doesn't want to tell Cullen.  Cullen has enough on his mind, and it's Carver's job to ease Cullen's burdens.  But... He looks up at Cullen, at the pain that lurks in his face because somehow he _knows_ Carver's been keeping secrets, and Carver sees, suddenly, that he's doing this wrong again.  He is shutting Cullen out, and that doesn't ease Cullen's burdens at all.

     So he sighs.  And he reaches into a fold of his robe to pull forth the ledger page, in an envelope now because he can't think what else to do with it, and because his urge to handle the thing while brooding will probably wear it to pieces.  He offers this to Cullen.  And then he tells Cullen everything.

     As he talks, Cullen's expression goes from wondering to horrified, and then finally settles at rueful shock.  Carver can't help hunching a little, waiting for his disapproval.  But Cullen only says, "I feel as though I should commend you for your initiative.  But the results are so... surprising.  It would never have occurred to me that this had nothing to do with the war."

     "Yeah."  Now Carver slumps because he hates what this means.  "Yeah.  It's me.  I'm the reason this happened."

     Cullen looks sharply at him, though he says nothing for a moment.  Then, softly, he says, "Even the Maker could not protect Andraste from being betrayed and murdered."

     Carver scowls.  "Maybe that's because He wasn't sodding _paying attention_."  He's never understood that part of the Chant.  The Maker loved Andraste so much that he... what, went off in a fucking sulk and left her to be burned alive?  And this is supposed to teach Carver some kind of lesson?  Yeah, the lesson's clear: _do a better job taking care of the people you love_.

     Cullen grimace-smiles, as he always does when Carver gets blasphemous.  "Or perhaps He simply understood that when you love someone who is willing to die for her beliefs, sometimes that is what happens."

     Carver flinches and stares at him, but there it is, laid out where he can't lie to himself about it anymore.  And _Maker_ it hurts to face:  Cullen _is_ willing to die, if that's what it takes, to make up for the mistakes of his life.  To make a world that suits his morals.  And Carver's all for it; he's the one who challenged Cullen to do it in the first place, after all.  But --

     _But I didn't think they would try to kill him_.  Naivete on his part.  Cullen is no mage himself, and not the sort of Templar who gets off on making mages suffer.  Cullen's just trying to get everyone to do the right thing, for fuck's sake.  So Carver thought the worst they would face would be public censure, maybe, or some fighting against maleficarum or the kinds of wankers who want to put all mages to the brand.  _I didn't know they would torture him for days, or take his sword, or fill him up with nightmares until they spill out even when he's awake --_

     As if hearing these thoughts, Cullen continues, still in that brutally soft voice.  "You cannot protect me from all the dangers I face, Carver.  Nor I, you.  We are both of us warriors, and this is war.  I told you a long time ago that I would rather die with a sword in my hand than in bed."  He twitches a little, then smiles.  "Though perhaps it will have to be the Declaration, rather than my sword."

     It feels like Cullen's punched him in the heart.  "For now," Carver blurts.  That's a lie too, he knows, denies.  But he needs it.  He's got to keep one lie if Cullen won't let him have the rest.  "Just for now.  You'll get your sword-arm back."

     Cullen's smile is so kind.  "For now," he agrees, and Carver is so desperately grateful that it hurts.

     All at once Carver can't sit still.  He gets up and starts pacing, breakfast forgotten, hands itching for a sword even though there's nothing, _nothing_ for him to cut.  "Fine," he snaps.  "Maybe I can't protect you from everything, but I can sodding well _try_.  You can't stop me, either!"

     "I don't intend to.  And I will do my best to protect you, as well, in whatever way I can."  There's a rustle of paper, and Carver turns to see that Cullen is looking at the ledger page, his face hard.  "We shall take this evidence to the Viscount, and demand that Lady Everford make an accounting of herself before him.  A public shaming and a harsh sentence should act as a suitable-enough deterrent against any other nobles who seek to imitate her."

     Carver has his doubts about that.  Kirkwall's nobles are all crazy, his own family included.  "How do you know Bran will give her a harsh sentence, though?"

     "Because Bran answers to me, when all is said and done."  Cullen gives him a Meredith smile, and for a moment Carver has to fight the urge to flinch.  But this is Kirkwall, after all, where the Knight Commander of the Templars has always been the de facto ruler of the city.  And this is Cullen; sometimes Carver forgets that he's in love with one ruthless, relentless, shitkicking bastard.

     "Yeah," Carver says, feeling his spirits lift for the first time in weeks.  This will be all right.  " _Yeah_."

     "I'll make the arrangements, then.  You should be there, mind you, as the assassin's killer, and as it is your noble house that has been wronged by hers.  That means spending the day at court."

     Carver would rather have a few teeth pulled, but if this is how it has to happen, so be it.  "Fine."  Then he sobers, as a new problem occurs to him.  "But -- Cullen, doing all this...  I don't know.  It feels..."

     Cullen eyes him thoughtfully.  "You have concerns?"

     "Yeah."  He rubs a hand over his hair, trying to figure out what it is that's bothering him.  But that makes things worse because his head hurts and even the pressure of his own hand exacerbates this, because he's tired from too many nights lying awake watching over Cullen or seething over what's happened to Cullen or trying to figure out how to keep Cullen safe. 

     And that's the core of it, he realizes. 

     "This isn't enough," Carver says, scowling.  "It won't stop some other noble family from pulling some fucking scheme to marry an Amell, and thinking they just need to do a better job of it than Everford.  They might not try another assassin, but we're still gonna have to deal with this _bullshit_."  He's heard his mother's stories:  Kirkwall nobles have had sodding _wars_ over broken engagements and the like.  Carver's fists clench in impotent fury, because he can't fight that kind of crazy.  Even with Cullen's help, he can't _do_ anything.

     Cullen sits back from the table, and that look's on his face again:  he's smiling, but his gaze has gone very, very serious, the way it always does when he's planning something big.  And Carver thinks, not for the first or even fiftieth time:  _Maker, you're so fucking_ magnificent _.  I would follow you anywhere_.

     "Yes," Cullen says.  "Well.  There is a rather simple solution for _that_ problem."

#

     Lady Everford looks like every other Kirkwall noblewoman of middle years that Carver has seen:  handsome and upright and stern, with carefully coiffed gray hair and carefully folded hands held at waist-level -- a stance she takes as soon as the city guards take the manacles off her wrists.  It's like she's standing in her own parlor contemplating what tea to serve, not in the Viscount's formal audience chamber, surrounded by several dozen guards, nobles, pages, and nosy onlookers.

     "I fear I must protest this treatment," she says to Bran, in a cultured and calm voice that grates on Carver's every nerve.  And then --

     Oh, fucking _Void_.  And then.

     Bran's all business, his usual cutting remarks tucked away somewhere beneath his heavy robes of office and that painful-looking circlet he has to wear.  He lays out the charges -- conspiracy and attempted murder and treason, Carver's not sure how Bran worked in the last but that's Bran for you -- and the whole court sort of inhales.  That's the shaming part of it, the supposed deterrent, except it's not working.  Because Lady Everford looks in no way ashamed of what she's done.

     " -- can only be a foul libel," she's saying.  And _saying_ , while Carver's fists clench tight enough to make the leather of his gauntlets creak in the thickening silence.  It's an elaborate plot, she says.  They have no proof that Everford herself contracted the Crows, she says.  The ledger could be a forgery, she says.  Some other noble family could've contracted them in her name, she says -- and then, fucking Void, bloody Maker, she _looks at Carver_ while she says this.  Because, she says, everyone knows that Carver Hawke is the less-favored son of the ill-favored Amells, and perhaps he has more to gain by forcing an alliance with a respectable noble family than Everford does.  And perhaps he was even the one to bring Bran that evidence.  Oh was he?  Well, isn't that coincidental.

     She says.

     She fucking _says_. 

     She's fucking _talking_ , talking her way _out of it_ , and even if Bran isn't buying it Carver looks around the room and sees that _the other nobles are_.  They're looking at him pityingly or with amusement, they're fucking laughing behind the masks of their faces, and now some of them are looking at him _speculatively_ , because it's just like he feared and now they're all thinking of him as some kind of prize to be won, no great shakes in himself but at least he's got that lovely estate and he's the Champion's brother and he's not a mage, that's got to be worth something.

     He doesn't even notice the red creeping about the edges of his vision.

     And now they're looking at Cullen as if he's an obstacle.  Like open season is about to start, and they're the hounds to his fox, and they mean to rip him to pieces and laugh at the sport of it.

     Carver doesn't even notice how hard he's breathing.  He feels Cullen, beside him, throw him an odd look, but it is a faraway thing.

     And Bran is looking uncomfortable.  As if her arguments actually have some merit.  As if she's going to get away with _trying to kill Cullen_.

     "No, you won't," Carver breathes, and he's shaking.  His heart's so loud it's a wonder no one's staring at him.  Cullen puts a hand on his wrist and he doesn't feel it.  " _No_."

     "However," says Lady Everford, throwing Carver a sly, triumphant glance, "I would be willing to settle this dispute," because attempted murder is just a _dispute_ after all, "with a compromise, if you will entertain the idea, Viscount."

     "This is not the time for entertainment, Lady Everford," Bran says, and Carver does not notice the warning in Bran's voice.  Bran's looking at Carver, though, and his frown has deepened.  Across the room, Aveline is staring at Carver too, and he doesn't notice how she starts weaving through the crowd, circling the room to try and get closer to him.

     None of them matter.  Jabbering voices.  Faceless targets.  Everything's red.

     "Of course not, Viscount, my apologies.  I only wanted to suggest that if Serrah Hawke would be willing --

     "That is _enough_ , Lady Everford."  Bran's sounding outright alarmed now, somewhere far far away.

     " -- to consider my eldest daughter, then I might -- "

     The rest of the sentence is lost, drowned in a wash of red, and Carver's walking forward with his sword in his hand.  He can't remember unsheathing it.  Somewhere there are gasps, cries of alarm, screams; somewhere there are voices that he knows speaking his name.  They're nowhere.  They're nothing.  A berserker's rage is something different, after all, and _this piece of shit has to die_.

     Lady Everford finally looks at him, and suddenly she sees what Bran has been trying to tell her.  Her eyes widen, and she gasps and tries to turn and stumble away all at once, succeeding only in tripping over her own skirts instead.  Then she's half-sprawled on the floor but kicking and scrambling frantically to get away, and the terror on her face only makes the rush of his blood sing louder as he snarls and lunges forward to run her through --

     _"Carver!"_   Cullen shouts, and all at once the rage pounding inside him goes still.

     He stops.  Cullen is right in front of him.  His hand is on Carver's _sword_ this time, just above the crossguard.  And as the red fades from Carver's vision, it lingers in one place:  Cullen's hand, which wells blood around the blade's edge.  And one other place:  the floor, where drops of Cullen's blood have already fallen.

     "Be at ease, my sword," Cullen says softly.  "I would not have you soil your blade on this one.  She is unworthy."

     Trembling, Carver lowers the blade-tip to the floor.  Cullen exhales and releases the blade as he does so.  But it's not enough.  It's not _enough_.

     Cullen does not flinch when Carver throws back his head and shouts to the Keep's distant rafters, loud enough to make dead spiders and dust fall.  _It's not enough_.  So then he rounds on the people who would dare to threaten what is his.

     "Any one of _you fucks_ ," he snarls, pointing around the audience chamber with his sword, "try to pull shit like this again, I'll kill you.  I'll kill your whole fucking _house_.  I'll knock down the bloody doors, I'll break through the sodding walls, _I'll tear this whole fucking city down_ to get you.  You leave me out of your noble politics _bullshit_.  And you don't ever, _ever_ , touch him."  He jerks his head at Cullen.  "Or I.  Will.  Make.  You.  _Die._ "

     Complete silence falls, but for the hard bellows rasp of Carver's breathing, for a good solid minute.  They all look back at Carver, white-eyed and gape-mouthed, and it takes everything he has not to run at them and start cutting off heads preemptively.

     But.  Cullen's behind him.  And Cullen said no.

     So he reins it in.

     Then Bran clears his throat in clear discomfort.  "Yes.  Well.  Ah.  The crown finds Lady Everford guilty as charged.  We shall hold the sentencing at a later time."  He nods toward Aveline and the other guards, who are staring too, but Aveline quickly snaps out of it and hurries over to drag Lady Everford off the floor.  Carver doesn't look at Everford, but he can feel where she is as Aveline hustles her away.  He's marked her; he tracks her without thinking about it.  If she speaks one bloody word --

     _No._   Cullen said no.

     And Cullen says then, to Bran, "If that matter is concluded, Viscount, I have a request of a different nature." 

     _His_ voice, alone in the room, does not sound far away.  Cullen is close and calm and comforting, and only by this is Carver's rage eased.  Gradually.

     "A request.  Yes, ah -- yes.  Certainly, Knight Commander; please proceed."

     Cullen's hand takes Carver's free one, which is a tight fist.  Carver feels the effort that this requires, the concentration Cullen exerts, and that forces him to focus, to push down the red that wants to return.  He closes his eyes for a moment, swaying in its wake, and uncurls his hand so that Cullen can lace their fingers together.

     "In the interests of peace," says Cullen, as they have discussed, "the Knight Captain and I ask that you marry us, on your authority as Viscount."

     There's another moment of silence.  The people in the room are staring again, this time at Cullen, and Carver's lips draw back from his teeth.  He does not notice himself doing this until Cullen squeezes his hand again.  Then he stops.

     "What?"  It's the first time Bran's ever sounded completely surprised, that he can remember.  " _Now?_ "

     "It would seem prudent," says Cullen, delicately.  "To calm the waters, as it were.  A simple oathtaking should suffice; we are all busy men."

     "Ah.  Yes."  There's a moment in which Bran murmurs to someone else; Carver can't be bothered to turn and face him to find out who.  Cullen's handling that anyway.  Carver keeps standing between Kirkwall and Cullen, because that's where he fucking belongs.  "Very well.  Do we have -- yes, well, plenty of witnesses.  No ring, but that is only a tradition.  I suppose you agree to be bound in marriage to this man, Knight Commander Cullen?"

     "I do, Viscount."

     "And, ah, Knight Captain Carver Hawke, do you also consent -- "

     " _Yeah_ ," Carver snaps.  But he's not quite as angry anymore, because now people are staring at him in mingled fear and dismay and relief, and _now_ he knows that it's enough.  Now they all know that Carver Hawke is an even more terrifying madman than his brother.  And now they are _relieved_ that the Knight Commander will keep him tucked away and under control in the Gallows, so that they can be safe.

     "That will do."  Bran's recovering at last; there is a note of wry resignation in his voice now.  "I shall not stand on ceremony, then; you are married.  Maker save us all."

     And that's that. 

#

     Now Cullen stands at the picture window of their quarters naked, a tan-and-blond reflection in the moonlit glass.  Carver gazes at him, at them, with his arms folded 'round Cullen from behind.

     Cullen lifts a hand to cup his cheek, and Carver feels guilty, because the hand is bandaged where Carver's blade cut it.  But Cullen smiles and says, "My hand did not slip this time." 

     And Carver can only close his eyes and reverberate with the joy of this:  a hand doing what its owner wills it to do.  It is such a small, simple thing to be happy about, but he'll take it.

     So he kisses Cullen's hand, and then he kisses Cullen's shoulder, and he smooths his hands over Cullen's scars and flat solid muscle.  Cullen's skin is all over golden down, with only a sprinkling of thicker hair 'round the nipples, until Carver's fingers slide below his navel.  Then the trail of down thickens and widens, and now Cullen is relaxed and exhaling in his arms, and for the first time in a long while there is nothing of anger in Carver.  Because this man is the most important thing in all Thedas to him, and now the whole sodding world knows it, and somehow this small, simple fact has actually made the world safer for them both.

     So he takes Cullen there against the window, because he doesn't give a shit if the harbor and the mountains and half the east wing of the Gallows can see them. Cullen braces his hands against the glass and his breath fogs the pane, but he must not care either -- or if he does that doesn't stop him from moaning and murmuring prayers while Carver moves inside him.  Nor does modesty prevent him from throwing back his head and crying out when Carver pumps his cock until he spends all over their reflection.  Carver will clean it up later.

     Then Cullen takes his hand and pulls him into the bedroom, because Cullen is a creature of tradition after all, and this is their marriage bed even if they've fucked in it -- well, made love -- a hundred times before.  There Cullen takes his time, nibbling at Carver's toes and licking the insides of his calves and working gentle fingers in his arse and biting at his abdominals, swatting Carver's hands away until Carver is pleading for Cullen to suck him off, touch his cock just once, please just _look_ at it for the Maker's sake, because otherwise Carver's going to die.  But instead Cullen lifts Carver's legs to prop against his shoulders.  He bends Carver double and rides him until Carver is sobbing incoherently, until Cullen's dripping sweat and making little sounds of strain himself, and only then does he graze Carver's aching cock with the gentlest of caresses.  Carver can't scream when he comes -- no breath left.  But he wants to.

     While the tremors ripple into stillness they lie tangled together, and then Carver sighs and waits for Cullen to move away.  It's safer for them to sleep slightly apart these days.  But Cullen stays right where he is, letting himself drift off still entangled.  He sleeps through the night in complete peace.

     With Cullen safe in his arms, Carver does too.  There's not a single spot of red in any of his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Took me *three sodding tries* to write this. I wrote *two complete attempts* before finally finishing this one. *Fifteen thousand fucking words,* in addition to the ten thousand of this attempt. Holy shit.
> 
> Part of the problem is that I have a really hard time with Carver's voice compared to Cullen's; dunno why. But the real problem is that tackling "the marriage thing" with these two really had to be handled in a certain kind of way. Not sentimental, or sappy. No rings or kisses; I thought Carver threatening to kill, well, everybody, worked much better as a public display of devotion. And no eliding over the very real problems they face, which is why I decided to write "Silence pt 1" before the marriage. (Handjobs are *important,* dammit. Well, and also being able to draw a sword. But HANDJOBS.)
> 
> But at last I am satisfied. And with that... I'm not gonna say this is the end of the series, because my muse obviously laughs at my intentions, but this feels kind of endy to me. I've spent far too much time on this when I really should be working on other things, and it's time I took a page from Carver and got all responsible-like. Alas, I don't have Cullen to provide such lovely motivation, but I'll make do.
> 
> (Thinking about whether to post the previous two attempts. The perfectionist in me never wants anyone to see them; the completist in me is like, "Well, it's kinda like the deleted scenes on a DVD..." Hmm. Opinions welcome.)
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for reading along, folks. :)


End file.
